


Reflection

by 0neType



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underswap, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Introspection, M/M, Red is trapped with his abusers, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Trauma, Triggers, both 'ships' in this are noncon, there's no actual rape in this fic but it IS referenced so please be cautious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType
Summary: It's funny what being hurt by someone who's essentiallyyoudoes to how you see yourself.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idontevenknowugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontevenknowugh/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Disbelief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9212567) by [idontevenknowugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontevenknowugh/pseuds/idontevenknowugh). 



> So Uggy wrote a fantastic series of drabbles (that is now a full-fledged fic!! AHHH!! <3) wherein the US!Bros (Blue in particular) are absolutely _shit_ to Red and I couldn't help but write a small, little companion piece as a gift to her,,!
> 
> This was written before Stretch and Edge's talk, so there should be no spoilers past Chapter 5 if you're not caught up yet.
> 
> That said, if you're reading this without any prior knowledge of Disbelief, you should know this going in:  
> \- Blue blackmailed Red into sex  
> \- Blue continued to rape Red for an extended period of time  
> \- Red moved in with the US!Bros under the pretense of 'dating' Blue  
> \- Stretch got jealous that Red got to be with Blue and basically revenge-fucked Red against his will while drunk  
> \- Stretch felt guilty for it but Blue waves it off like it's no big deal and says he'll share Red with his brother if he wants  
> \- Stretch finally realises what's really going on

Blue looked nothing like him.

_He didn’t he didn’t he didn’t he—_

They may have been essentially the same monster, sure, but when it came to visuals, they were _completely_ different. Where Red was all sharp angles, Blue was soft, rounded corners—right down to his perfectly lined, flat, blunt little teeth.

_But it hurt the same, scraping against his bones, the friction good to his body but like acid in his soul when Blue shifted and squirmed against him._

Their bodies were different too. The general structure was sculpted the same way but it was obvious at even just a cursory glance that Blue was made of far sterner stuff than Red. There wasn’t a single scar tarnishing the expanse of ivory that were his bones. Not at all like Red, who had more scars than he even had stories for; who had been so frail at one point in his younger years, that tripping had been downright hazardous to him, capable of shattering his fragile bones.

It used to be that he could take pride in those scars. That he could point at particularly gruesome ones and impress an acquaintance with how he managed to live through the encounter that gave it to him. He’d never thought of himself as particularly _attractive_ maybe, but he’d never been ashamed either.

He was what he was.

_Blue took care to point out every single one, voice breathless with laughter, light and teasing as his phalanges dug into every old cut, nauseatingly playful with his touches._

They didn’t sound the same either. If they did impersonations of each other they could probably pull it off—only a slight alteration of pitch and some heavy changes with speech patterns was what really separated them—but it was still pretty easy to tell them apart, even just by voice alone.

_And Blue was **loud** , he was always so fucking loud, he couldn’t keep himself quiet for anything, rocking on top of Red with his mouth parted and groaning and his still gloved hands gripping tight onto Red’s exposed ribs as he shivered through yet another orgasm—_

Even their clothing choices were different. Blue preferred to keep all covered up in boots and gloves and capes and scarves—all freshly laundered and clean and in a variety of different shades of blue that spoke volumes about how much attention monsters paid to frivolous things in this universe. Red couldn’t be bothered to shrug on his jackets on some days—had to force himself to do it to escape his brother’s ire about going out in day old clothes and smelling like the inside of a bar.

_He wants to cling to his jacket now. Wants it wrapped around him like burial rags—permanent and unmoving. Wants it back on his body the second Blue shuts the bedroom door and motions for him to strip._

_Blue doesn’t have to take anything off if he doesn’t want to._

They’re different. He and Blue are _completely_ different. Nothing alike in the slightest.

So, there was no reason— absolutely none at all—that Red should feel like this.

No reason he should freeze in panic whenever Stretch dumped the freshly done laundry at the foot of Blue’s bed and demand that Red fold them; no reason his soul should feel queasy at the sight of shirts and pants that were all in his size.

No reason that he should feel his body seize up whenever he was alone and he let a groan or sigh slip loose, head darting frantically from side to side with the sudden feeling that Blue was there with him.

No reason he should look down at his body and see unscarred bones moving in place of his own well-worn limbs, like ghost images passing through his vision.

… no reason that he should flinch every time he caught sight of his own reflection out the corner of his socket.

“What the fuck.”

The voice sounds distant to him, curved in on himself as he is, cradling broken shards in his lap.

“What the _fuck_.”

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have the energy for that.

He hasn’t had the energy for much recently.

A bright, orange hoodie suddenly fills up his view and Red flinches at the sight of it.

_He tried._

_He tried so hard to tell him._

_He tried he tried he tried but he was **worthless**. No good for anything but getting fucked—and, hey, in the end he should be thankful, right? Should be fucking **grateful** that at least Stretch knew what he was doing. So, this way, Red didn’t have to guide yet another monster through his own rape._

“Shit,” Stretch growls, gripping so tight around Red’s carpals that he has no choice but to drop the pieces of glass he’s still clenching so tightly onto, “You’re fuckin’ _insane_.”

Stretch is so close that Red automatically goes lax in response, bones loose and maneuverable. The other skeleton catches him in his hold, arms holding him tight, almost to the point of pain. Red wonders if he’s thinking of fucking him again. Stretch’s been keeping his distance since the other day but Red isn’t stupid—or, indeed, _hopeful_ —enough to believe that that’s going to last forever.

Not when Blue already gave him _permission_.

“Alright. Alright, okay, I… I-I think we can fix this.” Stretch is mumbling out loud, eyelights sweeping frantically over his form, “We’ll fix you up good as new before Sans gets back. He won’t know a thing went wrong.”

Red feels an outpouring of healing magic cast over him but it seems wavering and weak, like its owner doesn’t have enough grip on the skill to truly let the salve of goodwill knit his bones back together.

“Fuck.” Stretch curses, voice wavering with frustration and some darker emotion that Red is too worn to puzzle out, “Alright, let’s… let’s get you to the kitchen. We’ll have to use the medkit for this. Sans won’t notice any supplies go missing if I get some more to replace them tomorrow.”

The skeleton lifts him up into his arms, like a weightless doll. Red flops uselessly against him, not trying to keep purchase on Stretch’s form when he’d much rather stay there on the floor.

_Then again, when has it ever mattered what he wants?_

Stretch adjusts his hold till Red is cradled in his arms, shifts him around till he’s at eye-level with the shattered bathroom mirror. There’s a jagged cut running along from the top right corner to the middle of the left-hand edge. The rest of the mirror is in shards on the floor, but that part alone remains undamaged in it’s frame.

Red finally, _finally_ catches sight of himself.

His face is a mess.

There are numerous self-inflicted cuts dug into his skull, stretching out from his sockets and his nasal aperture and his mouth. The marrow has dripped steadily out of them, dusting around the edges even as they congeal and dry, dark against the aged hue of his bone. The cuts gnarl and twist in ugly patterns across his face, marking him up and marring his features into something unfamiliar and unrecognisable.

“You’ll be back to normal in no time.” Stretch says, but Red has no idea who he’s trying to assure.

For the first time in months he can look at himself dead-on without a sudden spark of anxiety.

Personally,

Red thinks he looks _so much better_ like this.

**Author's Note:**

> written mostly b/c i couldn't stop thinking about how being abused by an alternate version of yourself would make you your own trigger................,, and like.....,,.. fuck, that's _horrifying_.


End file.
